


in the beginning

by masamune11



Series: we are still human under these gold plates [1]
Category: Saint Seiya, 聖闘士星矢 Legend of Sanctuary | Saint Seiya: Legend of Sanctuary (2014)
Genre: Gen, I mean it spoiler if you have not watched legend of sanctuary, spoiler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masamune11/pseuds/masamune11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Milo the boy was only a name in a gravestone, the red-haired girl stole his brother’s name and draped it over her persona... if only to preserve his memory than to protect the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> For [Beta-Aquarii](http://beta-aquarii.tumblr.com/) and [Lunaiad](http://naiadthepsychic.tumblr.com/)-chan. You guys are awesome.

The earliest memory of her childhood was of an old house where she and her brother lived. It could not even be called a house, really. The house—if she could call a 50 meter squared building that—was more like an abandoned building in the outskirts of Heraklion. It was once a decent office building where good people tried to meet with ends meet, until a local gang war hit the place and drove people away.

(Because the outskirt of this city would never be a safe haven for anybody; not when you have kleptic child like her to worry, or a rough man ready to beat just to meet day’s target.)

Both of them were previously happy children with a family in a friendly neighbourhood just outside of the city.

Later, they were lost kids without parents.

(She remembered how her brother’s eyes widened as he shook his head, denying the news of their parents’ death by one of the gangs. His grip on her joined hands was unforgiving—but it was certainly less painful than the agony which burned in the base of her bowel, quickly spreading throughout her entire body.)

When the riots boomed, they became lost kids without a home.

The only reason why they were occupying that building in the first place was because they were driven away. It was not home (because home is where the heart is, and she thought her heart died weeks ago when she heard about her parents’ death; her brother probably felt the same), but the place is still decent for shelter and sleep. It could accommodate up to ten homeless people, whom she knew best and trained from in the arts of street living.

They live as street rats—until the boy stopped living altogether.

Her brother had nurtured the same surviving instinct like she did. He knew how to elude capture and threw fists and kicks to defend himself. But even his fleet feet could be outrun, his punches could be held; so when the local gang noticed that someone had the nerve to steal from them, they sent out their best to hunt the thief. Her brother became target, being hunted like some sort of game.

He was outrun. He was punched, kicked, and ganged up. He was broken.

By the time she arrived by his side, his focus was already flickering—his life slowly fading as blood gushed out of his system. His strong heart faltered from the lack of oxygen, and she remembered of holding him closed, ignoring the blood in almost every part of her clothes. Her mind solely tunnelled to him, watching each of his gestures as though trying to determine his apparent time of death.

Then the boy closed his eyes. His breath stilled; her mind failed to comprehend the death in her hand. The searing fire at the bottom of her stomach boiled like fire, distracting her from the apparent tragedy, making her see red. Some would think that she might have felt unfocused, but then she felt sharper—angrier.

The first thought that crossed her mind was: ‘kill his murderers’.

She did so afterwards.

(But the anger never left. She was left with even more loses—because no matter how many she hunted, her brother could never return. The young girl had washed her hands from the blood of her brother with another’s, and they shall never be clean forever.)

* * *

The funeral was small. Those who visit were homeless people living under the building. Even then, not all of them had come. She did not care, really; not all of them were kind enough towards both of them. The term ‘sticking together’ did not seem so intriguing for them.

It did not matter.

Her breathing was labored, even though her head screamed for her physique to grieve (even those boys—her brother’s friends, she supposed—had the decency to cry openly. Why could she not do the same? What stopped her?). There was a numb sensation in her heart, coupling together with the anger that kept her awake and alert. In summary, she was broken inside, and the only thing that kept her outside together was by chanting her brother’s name silently.

(She wondered if it’s because she had avenged him.)

There was a hand on her shoulder. She weakly turned, because despite the alertness of her sense, her body had not rested since last night. Standing next to her was an old man, gazing at her with condolences.

She had no idea who this man was, but he radiated an aura that soothed her raging anger underneath. Those violet eyes displayed kindness… and trust.

He asked for her name, and she smiled—a broken smile filled with longing and heartache.

“Milo. My name is Milo.”

(Because if she was just faster, stronger, more awakened than last night, she would have been able to save Milo the boy, not left with the experience to take lives and lost herself. His blood was on her hand, and his death shall be a reminder of her own—because part of her was already buried with him.

In a sense, death had come for her.

The least she could do is preserving his memory.)

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the middle of the night. I shall return to this piece later.
> 
> ...Anyway, this is just a fic in a blurb. Will write some more about this verses when I'm able.


End file.
